To Be Announced
by emilief
Summary: Each chapter posted is the first chapter for three very different stories. Reviews and input will help in choosing which one to continue writing - more info inside. Rated T for now - will be changed later.
1. From Queens

**Hello hello. So, the description outlines the general purpose here: I'm posting three chapters, but they aren't successive or even from the same idea. Each chapter is actually a teaser for a potential story, and since I'm undecided on which one to write, I'd love input from reviews and PMs to help me decide.**

**In specific, you can expect a small preamble about the idea and potential direction, and then a sample first chapter.**

**As a final note: Some of you may have read my other fic****_, Five Years_****, which is currently unfinished. I'm really sorry about that. I have more written and planned, but through a combination of hurried writing and few reviews, I've temporarily lost my passion to work on it. Plus, I did some really sloppy character development that I'm not pleased with.**

**I feel like my biggest mistake with my first fic was not seeking out a beta reader, so if you are interested in helping me beta any of these potential stories, please let me know!**

**I hope you'll review & vote if you see something you like. Thank you so much for reading.**

**Bisous,**

**E**

* * *

From Queens

_Inspired by the short line by Juice in 3x12 ("I'm a Puerto Rican from Queens – I speak better Yiddish!") I wanted to explore how growing up in Queens created Juice from Juan. How did he learn to hack? Does he actually speak Yiddish? Why did he have to leave? How did he meet the Sons? It's not really meant to evolve into a relationship-fic with an OC or canon character - more of an experimental headcanon._

The first time Juan Carlos met Mr. Malibu he was racing into their apartment building for reasons that seemed important at the time. His eight-year-old frame smacked into the large man's generous backside, causing several containers of Chinese takeout to fall to the floor.

"The fuck, kid!"

Juan stared wide-eyed at the fury shielded behind thick glasses. Years later, Mr. Malibu would seem anything but intimidating, but at the time he was the epitome of fear in Juan's small universe.

Mr. Malibu made Juan scoop up piles of sweet and sour pork mixed in with chow mein noodles with his bare hands. Grumbling, he took the remaining unspoiled food and gestured for Juan to follow him. The apartment was nothing like the one Juan called home. Even though it was the same building and separated only by three floors, the hefty man evidently didn't share Mama's proclivities for bleach.

_Cave_ was the word that Juan thought of. Tangles of wires and dull flashing lights emerged from stacks of computer things. A dusty, dank scent permeated the room and discarded take-out boxes were in varying states of decomposition. It appeared the Chinese boxes would soon be joining. Mr. Malibu settled in front of a very lived-in looking sofa chair and gazed at the blue glow of a screen while picking half-heartedly at his meager helpings. Juan stood silently in the doorway, still clutching handfuls of slimy chicken and noodles. He was too afraid to even breathe for fear of being yelled at again. Eternity seemed to pass before the grumbling figure remembered the young boy shadowing him like a bad cold.

"Garbage can is in the kitchen. Wash your hands. Don't fuckin' touch anything."

Juan complied silently. _Mama's gonna kill me if she finds out..._ In the course of two months, he'd already managed to irritate several of their new neighbours. He never tried to be trouble. It just seemed like trouble always found him.

"What's your name?" Mr. Malibu had asked.

"Juan Carlos Ortiz." His voice had been barely a peep, though he'd let a bit of pride slip in as he said his full name. He liked his name. Ms. Clemens was teaching his class at school how to write in cursive script, and Juan's favourite part was practicing big loopy uppercase Js and Os. Even his teacher said he had beautiful writing.

Juan suddenly remembered why he'd been rushing into the building. He wanted to show Mama the paper he'd written out in class today and the happy smiley faces and checkmarks that had decorated it after Ms. Clemens marked it. The paper was important, but this cave-like apartment was _interesting._ Although Juan was in probably in trouble, as usual, he couldn't help his curiousity.

"What's your name?" Juan asked boldly.

"Mr. Malibu."

"That's a weird name."

"It's not weird. It's supposed to be funny because I never go outside."

"Oh." Juan didn't understand what was quite so funny about it, he liked going outside to skateboard. Mama always said he had too much energy and needed to go outside anyway. She called him names like "Bottle Rocket" and "Firecracker." Secretly, Juan still loved the names, even though he told Mama he wasn't a baby and that it was embarrassing.

"What are you still doing here? Get out."

Juan left without a goodbye, knowing he wasn't wanted. Meeting Mr. Malibu had been scary, but exhilarating and intriguing. Maybe he would see what the strange man was up to tomorrow.

_Six years later..._

"Oh, shit."

Juan felt his head collapse back against the boiler. Vivica removed her head from his lap with a distinct wet popping noise and used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

"The janitor could come in here any second. C'mon." Vivica extended a hand to help Juan up as he fumbled to zip his baggy jeans. With his head in a daze and his eyes glazed over, they parted ways as soon as they emerged into the hallway from the cramped storage closet. Although Juan knew that he wasn't the first nor the last guy to be taken into the musty smelling room by Vivica, he hadn't been about to turn down his third-ever blowjob. Potential oral-sex was probably the one thing that kept Juan's attendance record somewhat regular, with the exception of not wanting to let down Mama. He contemplated going to Geography class but his feet led him right out the front door of his high school.

The novelty of learning to write his name in cursive in third grade had long since wore off and school was becoming increasingly useless. None of the lessons seemed as interesting or challenging as the things Mr. Malibu taught him. Juan could practically work magic with computers now – even Mal grudgingly admitted once that he had a natural knack for technology.

Mr. Malibu's apartment was just as disgusting, if not more, as the first time Juan entered.

"Mal?" he called out. The familiar, grumbling voice replied although from where, Juan wasn't sure.

"Krypto. Package is here, check it out." Juan smiled at the mention of his new online name. Mal had insisted that he needed one to replace SoccerPlayer84 and that that it needed to be memorable. Juan had thought long and hard about it, and settled on Krypto, short for Kryptonite. _Superman's one weakness. _They might think their firewalls and encryption made them invincible, but if computer security was Superman, then Juan was its Kryptonite. Or Krypto, rather. Unlike Mr. Malibu - whose real name had been long lost to his username - Krypto was something private. He was still Juan in reality, like a fifteen-year-old Clark Kent.

The sight of a neatly packaged, precise toolkit pleased him. Torx screwdrivers as tiny as T2 size organized alongside Phillips and flat heads. Fit for a modern handyman in a highly technological sense. Making sure to not let the mini tools falls out and be forever lost in the abyss of Mal's cave, Juan shouted out a goodbye to unseen corners of the apartment and hustled up a flight of stairs. The familiar scent of freshly baking bread and jangling songs greeted him.


	2. Ghosts

**Please review if you can! Cheers, E**

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Ghosts

_I'll actually leave my author's note until the end of the page – I don't want to give away the crux of this story outside of the context of chapter one._

Charming. Nine years had gone by, and JC ended up in some backroads California town, with a name like _Charming. _Lips quirking at the corner in slight irritation, she wondered what brought him here. And what kept him here. The allure for a guy like him wasn't immediately evident, though neither was his reason for abandoning her.

The bodega they'd grown up in together had long since given way to gentrification, and the tight-knit community that formed it had dispersed, but the Ortiz family had stayed on, defiant of it all. Mama Ortiz was a willful woman; developers and city council members didn't intimidate her. Although the rising buildings sprouted like weeds around them, the remaining Ortiz clan still lived in the same tiny brick-and-limestone house, huddled in the shadows of glass castles that ached for the skyline.

She'd long left Queens, much like the bodega, and found new roots in Harlem. But the siren songs of younger years called on, occasionally pulling her back to the one place that was once like her second home. They might not have been blood family but she'd always been welcome in that cramped kitchen. Mama Ortiz was nearing her mid-sixties now and kept her children close by her side... _with the notable absence of one._ She still visited the older woman from time to time, always answering the question "have you heard from him?" with a shake of the head, not needing to ask who the "him" was referring to.

Charming. It was time to return to Mama Ortiz and reply to that question with a nod, an affirmation that yes, she'd heard from him.

* * *

Opie Winston was in a good mood today. The novelty of having his brothers back around the shop, released from prison, hadn't yet worn off. He was newly married, and Ellie and Kenny seemed to really be settling into life with Lyla and her son Piper. For the first time in a long time things seemed to be better and maybe even good.

"Hey Ope, I'm sending the prospect to pick up some lunch, you want anything?" Jax's blue eyes crinkled, a smile meant for his best friend.

"I'm good, brother. Lyla packed me something."

"Remembering the perks of married life sometimes makes me think those three divorces were worth it," Bobby said, clapping a hand on Opie's shoulder and letting out a rueful chuckle.

After some banter, Opie found himself standing alone in the garage again. He unconsciously ran a greased slicked hand through his hair and sighed when he realized what he'd just done. _I needed a shower anyway, _Opie conceded. Ignoring his appearance, he tried to focus on the job at hand. It was a damn nice car – a newer model Mustang GT – but it was being run into the ground by some seventeen year old that didn't know the meaning of a hard day's work. It had to be about the seventh or eighth time that Opie had worked to repair the cherry red car. Ever since the kid got it a year ago as a birthday present, he'd personally worked out countless dents and scrapes, and brought that engine back from a state that almost hurt to look at.

Rolling out from under the vehicle, Opie sat up on his stool and winced into the sunlight. The end of summer was blinding hot – both a California blessing and curse.

A tiny figure was standing alone in the lot. He stood, shielding his eyes from the light to get a better look at who it was. It was a woman. She was slim, with short brown hair that cut off an inch above her shoulders. His heartbeat began to race. Small wrists gave way to long, delicate fingers, a silver ring glinting in the sunlight, and toned legs were sunk into a worn pair of sneakers.

Opie walked towards her, unable to breathe. His feet moved almost on instinct - maybe he was floating. He didn't bother to wipe away the tears that formed in the corners of his eyes, so instead he let them fall. _It's been so long... _His vision was swimming in front of him from the salty reminder of his pain, but things had never seemed so clear. _Donna. Donna._

Her name called out silently from his mind. He tried to speak to her but it only came out as a sob. _God, Donna. I love you. I miss you. Why did you go away? _He was overwhelmed by the need to touch and love his beautiful wife. He didn't care who saw – he'd lay her down on the steaming tarmac and kiss every inch of her body. He needed to show her how much he wanted her, work their hurt out with gentleness and ...

He held Donna, his body pinning her to the hood of a car parked in the lot. Opie was hysterical as he kissed her, hands fisting in her hair, and his hips pressed up to hers. _Donna. Donna. My wife. _Donna was crying and screaming, her body shaking underneath him. _Shh. It's okay, we're together. I'm here._

Opie felt his body being pulled – _No! –_ and heard Jax yelling in his ear.

...

Carolyn was sobbing. Her body was curled tightly into a ball on the ground, the heat from the asphalt making her tears sizzle and evaporate. That man... that massive man... he'd come out of nowhere, grabbing her and kissing her, holding her down with his weight so she couldn't get away. She didn't have the time or the strength to fight him off. It felt like it took forever for other people to intervene, for the blonde-haired man to pull him off.

"Jesus Christ, what happened?" The voice sounded disembodied. She couldn't place where it was coming from. Somewhere far above her. She wasn't even sure anyone was talking to her.

"I don't know, Ope just... lost it." Another voice now.

"She looks like Donna." A third voice.

A hand touched her shoulder and Carolyn gasped. By reflex, she curled tighter in to herself, her fingers gripping white.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The third voice spoke to her, a light wheeze to the words. Carolyn let her eyes open slightly. Watery blue eyes stared at her, not unkindly, and a hand adjusted the oxygen tank that snaked into his nose. "Anything broken, girl?"

Carolyn managed to croak out a 'no' before closing her eyes again. The hand left her shoulder, and the old man with the blue eyes instructed others to help clean her up. She felt strong, wiry arms scooping her body up and carrying her somewhere.

When she next opened her eyes, she'd been placed in some sort of office, albeit cluttered. A woman was here now. She introduced herself to Carolyn, though Carolyn could only manage a nod and immediately forgot the introduction. The sobbing had subsided and shock had set in.

"Anything broken?" That question again.

"A little sore. I'm okay." Carolyn's answer seemed to satisfy her. They were alone in the office now.

"So what are you gonna do?"

"What?" Carolyn was confused.

"About Opie. What happened here – Are you going to press charges? That man... He's been through a lot. Lost his wife. Left him with two kids."

"I-I don't know," Carolyn stuttered. She didn't really. The attack had come out of nowhere and scared her, but she was more or less unharmed. Opie, if that was his name, didn't seem to want to hurt her. He'd been crying and kissing her, it was almost sad in a way. "Why me? Why did he do that?" Someone at least owed her this answer.

"You look like Donna. The wife that died." The woman said it as plain as day. It was a fact that could not be argued and was not up for discussion. _Gemma_. The woman's name reappeared her in mind as she struggled to process the revelation.

* * *

_The idea for this came when I was writing a chapter in_ Five Years_ (my other fic) in which the OC meets Opie. It made me remember how much I enjoyed his complex relationship with Donna, and Donna as a character. By having a strange woman enter that reminds him so vividly of his dead wife, I can write some of those lost moments between Ope and Donna, and contrast with the OC. I originally came up with the idea as a segue into Juice/OC, but I'd be open to Opie/OC if it seems better. In all honesty though, I see Carolyn as Opie's downfall and Juice's healing._


	3. The Replacement

**Third and final story pitch! You know the drill, E**

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The Replacement

_Ally Lowen is an intriguing character that I wish had more back story, though I'm glad we got to see her around more in the most recent season. She's calm and caring, sophisticated and confident, and somehow unfazed by defending a criminal organization. Of my three ideas, this is my newest and least developed (in terms of where I picture things going). I feel like Juice would be the kind of guy attracted to a powerful older woman like Lowen, and she's got just enough of her own danger to justify making some mistakes with him. Unfortunately, aside from a stint as (actually paid!) intern in an estate law firm, I have little knowledge of criminal law, let alone the American judicial system. There's more than likely to be a few mistakes in whatever I write about Lowen's career._

_I don't know if there could be longevity in their relationship or whether it'd be purely sex-based._

"Do you even know what you're getting into, Ally?" Rosen's stare was fixed on her face.

"I've been your assistant for the past two years. Of course I know what I'm getting into."

"It's one thing to be my shadow and entirely fucking something else to be on the speed dial of these men. Jax isn't like Clay; he's a loose cannon. And I'm getting out before he blows."

Ally Lowen assessed her former boss. For all his intensity right now, nothing could hide the tired brown eyes and thinning hair coupled with receding hairline. Jacob Rosen appeared eternities older than his fourty two years. It was almost as if he'd seen the darkest side of man and backed away from the fight. Once upon a time, as an upstart fresh from the bar exam, she'd idolized him. The facade had since fallen away and revealed a shrewd, dispassionate lawyer that pined for a condo in Boca Raton and boring estate law.

Rosen sighed heavily. "Anyway. It's done. I won't argue with you anymore, you've made your choice." _Of course you won't argue, _she thought bitterly. "Are we still meeting everyone for birthday drinks tonight at Level?"

_Ah, yes. Birthday. _Her birthday. As if turning thirty-six wasn't painful enough, she'd be spending it watching Rosen drink more than his share of vodka martinis in addition. He was the kind of drunk that looked like he'd been slapped; all red-faced and slightly weepy-eyed. But he'd offered a young lawyer an exciting position at his almost equally young firm in what seemed like a different lifetime. She couldn't forget the man he'd been in light of the man he'd become.

...

Ally sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating the reflection that stared back at her from the mirror set atop an ornately carved white dresser. Her fingers fluffed at the loosely curled caramel strands that fell to her shoulders. _Happy birthday to me._ Lips pursed and pulled into a practiced closed-mouth smile. Legs crossed then uncrossed. Rings slipped onto delicate hands that were beginning to wrinkle at the knuckles.

Rosen had been her fantasy. He was supposed to be the man she fell in love with, married, and ran a law firm with. She'd never been a motherly type, but maybe she would have wanted children. The fantasy was gone now and her window of opportunity for new ones was quickly closing.

Her mother made little attempt to hide her disappointment earlier on the phone. Another year older, another year single, another year with no grandchildren. Why couldn't her mother be proud of the things she'd achieved instead? She graduated as one of only three females in the notoriously male dominated field of criminal law, made more money than she sometimes knew what to do with, and had a gorgeously appointed house. If oak floors and marble countertops and throw pillows meant nothing, then why did anyone bother?

Ally gave her outfit one last appraising look before heading to the door. She'd barely stepped into her black Beemer when her cellphone went off. _Unknown caller. _Flicking it open, she answered.

"It's Chibs. We need yeh at the club, somethin' came up."

She didn't know whether to feels appreciative or angry at having her celebrations put on hold, but either way, it appeared she'd officially become Rosen's replacement as club lawyer.

...

"Shit, Lowen. All dolled up?" commented Tig, watching her exit the expensive car, legs outstretched.

"You look damn good," added Juice. His eyes seemed appreciative as they wandered.

Had she not spent the last two years helping Rosen bail this club out of messes, she might have blushed. Instead, she took the blunt observations as compliments, which was what they were intended as in their own brusque way. And feeling attractive in front of Juice wasn't a feeling she minded. The man was significantly younger than her, around twenty-three if she remembered his file correctly. Ally didn't consider herself a cougar – _I'm not that old! – _But attention from someone thirteen years younger was an ego boost that she sorely needed today.

Offering a slight smile in reply, she followed them into the clubhouse.


End file.
